


Send Somebody Out of His Mind, Send A Goddamn Leader

by SushiOwl



Series: Steter Trumblr Prompts [9]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fear of Death, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scent Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 16:02:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8997502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SushiOwl/pseuds/SushiOwl
Summary: Stiles needs to pretend to be Peter’s mate to try to save his life, and he will do so with much complaining.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from [Someone Who'll Get It by Highasakite.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HFTNeTwzEkQ) Video is disturbing, but beautiful song. It is my Steter anthem.
> 
> This was a prompt on Tumblr for screaming-towards-apotheosis, given to me as just "fake/pretend relationship." That just blew up in my brain. Was supposed to be 1500 words max, turned into 4000+, because why not, right?
> 
> I sort of proofread this at two in the morning. :D

“There’s a werewolf council?”

“Yes.”

Stiles let his brows lift languidly as his face went as bland as possible. “Is this Twilight?”

Derek just stared back, used to and unaffected by Stiles’s brand of sarcasm by now. “You’ve read those books?”

Stiles pursed his lips. “You know I have questionable judgement.” When Derek didn’t say anything, Stiles crossed his arms. “Why me?”

“You’re the only member of the pack is both not related to him and unmated.”

Stiles would have huffed if he had the energy. “What would they do to him?”

Derek shrugged. “Punishments vary by the crime. If we can’t convince him that he’s already suffered for killing his alpha and a member of his own family, they’ll hurt him and eventually kill him.” When Stiles didn’t say anything, Derek’s sighed softly, a shadow falling over his face as he dropped his head, looking so old and tired. “I don’t want to lose anymore family. Please, Stiles?”

Stiles dragged his hands down his face. He’d do anything for his pack, but he at least had to put up a little bit of a fight or they could worry for him. “Okay, fine, I’ll do it.”

Derek gave him a little smile that was both an expression of gratefulness and an apology.

* * *

“Okay,” Stiles started, standing across the room from Peter in Deaton’s office with the vet sitting serenely at his desk between them. “So, how do we convince a council of stuffy old werewolf jerks that I’m Peter’s mate so they don’t murder him gruesomely?”

“They’re actually not that old,” Deaton said simply.

“They’re not?” Stiles asked.

“No, members of werewolf council are in their mid-thirties at the oldest and only serve four year terms. It’s a measure to keep a fresh perspective and prevent anyone getting stuck on outdated traditions.” Deaton tipped his head. “And right now the council is three women, three men and one person that does not like gender labels.”

“Oh.” Stiles frowned, weirdly disappointed that this totally ruined his mental image of facing geriatric werewolves that all in a way resembled Gerard Argent.

“They may not let the old ways hold them back,” Peter added. “But with youth and progressive ideals comes… creativity.” He looked away and swallowed.

Stiles stared at him. Peter was actually scared? He looked back at Deaton, who was waiting calmly (but with silent, aggravating amusement) for them to continue. “Okay,” he said, taking in a breath and letting it out. “So what do I have to do?”

“Peter needs to mark you as his in a werewolf way,” Deaton said.

Stiles’s brain took that and went to all sorts of places, ending up slightly horrified. He looked at Peter, eyes wide. “You’re not gonna pee on me, right?”

Peter’s eyes snapped to him, a moment a pure surprise on his face before his expression settled into what Stiles had come to call Asshole Extraordinaire, so he prepared himself. “I’m not into that, Stiles, but if you are--” He spread his hands out. “No judgement.”

Would the werewolf council reward him if he killed Peter instead?

“No urination required,” Deaton said, bringing their attention back to him. “But scent is part of it, a big part. You need to smell like each other.”

“And we do that by…?” Stiles really wish Deaton didn’t use as many words as possible to get to one point.

“We hold each other,” Peter said, looking at an indistinct place on the wall. “We exist in each other’s homes. Our scents become indifferential, one.”

“You also need to get to know each other better to convince people you’re set to be mated for life,” Deaton added.

When the loading bar in Stiles’s reached completion, he huffed out a breath through his nose. “I think I’d rather be peed on.”

* * *

“What, no champagne, decadent chocolates and rose petals?” Stiles asked when he arrived at Peter’s the next day, looking like he had just rolled out of bed as per usual. It was their first dinner date thing, but he wanted to let Peter know that he had not been looking forward to this.

The feeling was mutual. Peter made a face as he set out Thai take out boxes on his glass coffee table. “Shut up. If I have to have dinner with you, I’m going to do it while watching Netflix so I don’t have to pay attention to you.”

“Rude,” Stiles said, and Peter lifted a brow at him. “Buuut totally sensible, because I was thinking the same thing.”

They ate side by side, arms touching not only as an initiation to scent sharing but because Stiles was right-handed and Peter was left-handed, so their elbows kept bumping and they were both too stubborn to switch spots. They managed to get through the food, though Stiles had to admit it was difficult to pay attention to _Legends of Tomorrow_ when they were a budding elbow jabbing war between himself and Peter.

Jabbing eventually escalated to lazy shoving, and then the shoving turned less lazy, and it probably would have turned into a full on slap fight if they hadn’t accidentally managed to grab each other’s hands. Stiles glared at Peter, who glared back, but Stiles remembered they had a job to do here, and Peter seemed to come to the same realization. 

They started inching to each other until they were chest to chest, then awkwardly wrapped their arms around one another. They kept staring at each other, inches apart with mutual sour faces. 

After a second, Peter let out a little rumbly growl, almost like he couldn’t help himself.

Stiles definitely couldn’t help himself, so he returned it as best he could.

The tension popped like a balloon. Peter grinned with a snort. “You sound like a tiny kitten.”

Stiles didn’t stick his tongue out, but it was a near thing. “Fuck you,” he said instead. Good comeback, Stilinski. A++.

Peter’s eyebrow jumped up. “Well, that would definitely help.”

Stiles sagged into Peter’s chest with an _ugh._

* * *

“Here.”

Peter slowly took the lump of red fabric that Stiles was offering, unraveling it like he was afraid it would was about to jump at his head and suffocate him. When he got it into a discernable shape, his face fell into exasperated disappointment. “Really?” he asked, holding out the lacrosse team hoodie with the Beacon Hills High team logo on the front and his last name and team number on the back.

“What?” Stiles asked flatly, before he gestured to the hoodie. “I’m supposed to give you something I wear all the time, right? Well I live, eat and sleep in that thing.”

Peter looked at the hoodie, his nostrils flaring a little, before he looked kind of offended. He cleared his throat as he dropped the hoodie to drape over his forearm, turning and grabbing a black and expensive looking shirt from the back of his couch. He offered it to Stiles, dangling from two fingers.

Stiles took it, ready to make a stank face too, but the fabric was so soft that he wanted to rub it against his cheek. He examined it a moment and was not surprised to find it was a v-neck with a capital V. “I don’t know if I have the right…” He tried to find the right, least insulting word. “...demeanor too pull this off.” He pulled his lips to the side.

“Is that what they’re calling chest chair these days?”

Stiles dropped his arms with a sigh. “No, I mean I’m not a smarmy villain who can pull off manscaping.”

Peter rolled his eyes in a perfect circle. He held up a finger. “One; I do not manscape my chest.” He lifted a second finger. “Two; I’m not so much of a villain these days. More of an anti-hero.”

Stiles made a noise akin to a cat trying to quietly hack up a hairball. “Yeah, okay.” He looked at the shirt a moment, before he lifted a brow and gave Peter a barely contained smile. “Where are the shoulderpads?” 

Peter went still. “What are you talking about?”

“The shoulderpads! You know, the pads that go on your shoulders--”

“I know very well what shoulderpads _are,_ Stiles. Why in the world would you think that _I_ would commit such a fashion faux pas?”

Stiles hummed, bringing the shirt up and pretending it took effort to stretch it across his chest and shoulders. He gave Peter a half shrug. “Maybe you should?”

Peter’s eyelid twitched, before he let out a _tch!_ and pulled the lacrosse hoodie over his head with a little more force than necessary. It seemed to fit like an old, out of shape glove, and the hood really wanted to be over Peter’s carefully sculpted hair. 

Peter looked down at it, frowning like it confirmed his beliefs that red was not his color unless it was a spray of blood.

Privately, Stiles thought Peter looked pretty good, but not just because he always looked good. He looked warm, soft, and touchable. Stiles thought it would be just a smidge easier to cuddle him if he looked like that.

Wordlessly, he pulled his own shirt off, setting it aside and averting his eyes, cheeks burning, as Peter watched him pull on the v-neck. He touched it as it settled against his skin, feather light and soft like the touch of moonlight. He looked at Peter, finding him considering him carefully.

“Huh,” was Peter’s opinion, head tilted.

* * *

Stiles stared at the note cards that Peter had given him, index finger tapping the top of them. He was aggravated that Peter had the kind of handwriting that was both fancy and perfectly readable. He cleared his throat and set them face down again. “Okay, your sister was named Talia Hale, married to Andrew, who took her last name after she bit him and they married. Your parents were Alec and Ophelia.”

“Right,” Peter said, sitting across from him at the table, bright pink note cards in his hands. Stiles thought he was funny. He was wearing the hoodie, the sleeves engulfing his hands so only his fingers showed. “What’s my middle name?”

Asshole-Sexypants? Stiles looked at the cards, before he snorted. _”Conrad?”_

“Don’t.”

“I guess it’s better than Lynn.” Stiles tapped the note cards on the table. “Your turn.” 

Peter didn’t even look at the cards. “Sobiesław Michael Stilinski, nicknamed Stiles. Your father is Johnathan. Your mother is Claudia. You are an only child. Your initial connection to the pack was Scott McCall, your would-be brother from another mother--” He let his eyebrow jump up. “--as you have said. You are our emissary in training.”

Stiles stared, stunned. “Okay, I did not even put my real name on that card. How the fuck did you know it, and how the fuck did you know how to _pronounce_ it?”

Peter just smiled in the way you look at a dimwit. “Moving on. You finished your associate degree at the local community college then your dual bachelor’s degrees in child development and education at Berkeley. Now you’re a kindergarten teacher.” His smile went sharper. “Because you hate yourself.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, pushing his lips out. “I certainly am feeling some hate right now,” he said, looking through his cards. He ignored Peter’s low chuckle. “You also went to Berkeley, because you are not original--” He held his finger up and in Peter’s face to stop him from saying anything. “Careful, you might admit you’re old.” When Peter stayed quiet but for a little _rrr_ , Stiles smiled down at the notecards. “Oh, you got a dual degree too. Mathematics and computer engineering. No wonder you’re a Mac guy. You worked IT at your sister’s law firm?” He looked up.

Peter nodded, a disturbing lack of sneering or smirking on his face. 

“Why aren’t you doing that now?” Stiles asked, lowering the notecards to the table. “People that are good with computers are always in high demand.”

Peter looked down, which was extremely concerning. Peter was never the first to break eye contact. He and Stiles had gotten into so many staring contests that ended in a need for eye drops. “Technology has advanced exponentially since I was in a coma and, well…” He lifted and dropped his shoulder. “Died. And I have been on a sabbatical.”

“Sabbatical? Really?” Stiles snorted, smiling, but Peter didn’t look at him, so he frowned. “You’re smart. You could figure it out.”

Peter tilted his gaze up, face falling into what looked like offense, but Stiles studied him a moment and found true confusion. Stiles was slightly worried and completely uncomfortable under this scrutiny, but thankfully Peter looked down at his notes and cleared his throat. “Anyway, your students call you Mr S, and on your first day you glued yourself to your desk…”

* * *

“Okay, so what was our first date?” Stiles asked as he watched Peter set the table with some seriously delicious-looking teriyaki chicken and jasmine rice. Stiles took a deep whiff of it as he sat down. Peter sat across from him and they locked their feet together. Always touching. “You don’t seem like the dinner and a trashy movie type.”

“Trashy movie, maybe not, but I guess if I’m your mate I would accompany to the Transformers movies.” Peter picked up his iced milk tea, sipping it. 

“That’s almost sweet,” Stiles said, and Peter looked at him. “But the Transformers movies were a collection of garbage fires. Besides, those are bro movies that I torture Scott with.”

Peter let out the tiniest gasp of offense and put his chest on his chest. “So I, the love of your life, am not invited to your disastrous explosions and robots movies?” He pushed out his bottom lip. “Stiles, you wound me.”

“I wish,” Stiles replied flatly, picking up his fork and shoveling a bit of chicken into his face. Then he slowed down to just savor it, because holy shit this was good. “I mean, it’s not like we can…” He paused, looking up and humming. “Well, I mean, I guess we could say we met at the hospital and it was love at first sight.”

Peter gave him the blandest blink possible. “When you were sixteen? Are you kidding?” He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “Yes, being a murderer isn’t bad enough. They’ll think I’m a murderer and…” He waved his hand in the air indistinctly. “Other things.”

Stiles had to smile at that. “It’s kind of adorable that you can’t even say it.”

Another unimpressed, slow blink from Peter. “Do you like fondue?” he asked.

Stiles sucked in a breath. “Is this a Captain America reference?” he asked, deadly serious.

Peter squinted at him. “I…” He sat back and picked up his chopsticks. “No. Our first date. We went to The Melting Pot, then we went into the city to the Theater Under the Stars. You can pick the showing.”

Stiles thought about it, staring down at his food. “You know, in my third year, there was a mostly deaf production of _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_ at the Theatre Under the Stars. I wanted to go. It was supposed to be magical with the only vocalization being from the chorus and narrator. Signing along with the music and stuff.”

“But you didn’t go?” Peter asked.

Stiles shook his head. “Nah, didn’t have time. Had a paper due and stuff.” He actually hadn’t wanted to go alone. If Peter heard his heartbeat, he didn’t call him on the lie.

Peter tapped his chopsticks against his plate. “Alright, then that was our first date. But I paid for seats, good ones, because there is no way I would sit on the _grass_.” He shuddered, sticking his tongue out a little.

It was so out of character and so _cute_ that Stiles let out a braying laugh.

Peter smiled at him, seeming pleased by Stiles’s laughter. “I suppose we can wing it when it comes to other dates. We can’t be expected to remember all of them. I imagine we used to do the dinner and movie thing often, but now we are comfortable with each other. We most of the time stay in and…” He lifted a brow, grinning. “Netflix and Chill?”

Stiles didn’t know what oxygen was anymore, but he was best friends with shaking and wheezing. He wiped at his leaking eyes, trying to will his lungs into doing what they were made for. “Okay, okay, yes, sounds good.” He sniffed, blinking. “But for my last birthday you totally took me to a Mets game.” He jabbed his fork in Peter’s direction. “It was my dad’s idea, and you bought the tickets a month in advance.”

Peter kept smiling. “How thoughtful of me. I’m a wonderful boyfriend.”

“Uh huh,” Stiles said, stabbing more pieces of chicken, before he waved them at Peter. “You’re the best.” He stuck the fork in his mouth and didn’t bother hiding his moan of pleasure. “Okay, gotta know,” he managed while chewing. “Where the hecka did you get this food? It’s amazing.”

Peter stared at him, highly unimpressed. “If the council asks if we ever fight, I will tell them we do, and it’s when you talk with your mouth full like a toddler.”

Stiles embraced his new age, opening his mouth and sticking out his tongue with chewed food clinging to it.

Peter made the most comical retching face and covered his eyes with a shudder. “To answer your question; I made it.”

Stiles blinked, looking down at the food, at Peter, at the food again, before he belatedly swallowed his mouthful. “Oh,” he said, as lame as ever, before he looked at Peter and found him peeking through his fingers at him. He gave him a smile, letting the warmth and satisfaction he was getting from the food spread across his face. “I meant it. It’s amazing. If we were boyfriends, I would bother you to make me food all the time.”

Peter looked honestly shocked again, though this time softer and with a gentle smile like he was still hesitant to believe any compliments but was warming up to it.

So Stiles had to break it, because he didn’t do well in those moments. “Oh my god, are you blushing? I didn’t know blood could go to an undead’s face!” Then he squeaked as Peter pinged one of his chopsticks at him, smiling still but looking fondly aggravated.

Stiles didn’t say anything about how Peter’s feet hugged his closer.

* * *

Okay, seeing Peter chewing on the wrecked strings of his hoodie had Stiles wondering if he was in a different dimension. They were on Stiles’s couch, Barry Allen speeding along and erasing timelines on the TV, and food in front of them. Well, Stiles’s plate was empty. The food on Peter’s plate had just moved around a bit. He had his arms around one of Peter’s, leaning into him, but Peter was much like a statue with the jitters, refusing to or unable to return the touch.

Stiles didn’t need to be a werewolf to smell pheromones or whatever to know what Peter was feeling. Peter was huddled in on himself, leg jumping up and down with a faraway, hunted look on his face. His breathing was almost shallow, and if he had been human, he might have started hyperventilating by now. Stiles knew what that was. It was the fear of death, sickening dread. He had experienced it enough times himself, and not just for himself.

“Hey,” Stiles said into Peter’s shoulder and waited a moment for the word to get to Peter’s mind. When Peter looked over, almost unseeing as the string dropped from his lips, Stiles smiled up at him a little. “Stay the night.”

Peter didn’t seem to understand at first, his brow creasing just a bit, before he looked toward the TV. “Why, Stiles, I didn’t know you felt this way,” he said without even the slightest attempt to put feeling behind it, just a flat, lifeless thing.

“Shut the fuck up,” Stiles said warmly, hugging Peter’s arm a little tighter. “I just want to get this combined scent thing down. I want us to stink so bad of each other that the smell crawls up their noses and lays eggs in their brains.”

Peter sagged a bit, the corners of his lips turning up. Then he just let himself lean to the side, almost like a fall, and nodded under Stiles’s chin. “Okay.”

When they went to bed, Stiles was expecting Peter to make a comment about the state of his bed. It didn’t have a fitted sheet and was sitting on a box spring only. But Peter said nothing, just flopped onto it and rolled into a ball in the middle. Stiles watched him a long moment, before he followed.

He managed to get the blanket around them as he scooped his knees under Peter’s, curling around him. He realized just how small Peter was when he wasn’t forcing himself to be larger than life. He hugged him tight, connecting with every part of him he could, every bit of resistance he’d been holding onto dropping away.

“It’ll be okay,” he murmured into the back of Peter’s neck, nuzzling the short hairs there with his nose. He smeared his cheek and the edge of his mouth across Peter’s skin like he had seen dogs and cats do when researching scent marking.

After a while, Stiles didn’t know exactly how long, only that he was painfully awake, Peter shifted. He turned, and Stiles moved his legs to accommodate him, putting his arms back around him when Peter pressed their chests together. They tangled up easily, like they had been doing it forever, and Peter nudged his face into the crook of Stiles’s neck and shoulder.

They didn’t sleep. Stiles stared at the insides of his eyelids, and Peter would shift minutely through the night, his body never getting heavy like he had succumbed to sleep. Stiles ran his fingers through Peter’s hair until he’s memorized the way the strands laid.

* * *

Again, Stiles was disappointed by the lack of a creepy old mansion covered in vines and surrounded by fog as the council’s headquarters. There was no moat with werealligators, no menacing stone gargoyles, dripping candle sconces in murky hallways or even a basement with echoing screams. No, this was worse. This was a highrise building with a silver, reflecting outside, clean windows, modern black and white furniture and a fucking Starbucks on the ground floor. This was _professional._

He and Peter were outside two warm wooden doors to a meeting room, no doubt furnished with a long table, comfortable leather chairs and plants in the right places according to feng shui. They were too anxious to sit at the chairs provided, so they were standing, both deadly still and staring at the polished handles of the doors.

Peter looked more himself, collected and determined, but Stiles could see the fear in him, the way in shined in his eyes and trembled in his fingertips. He was putting up a brave front, would until the end, and Stiles believed it was more than just pretend. Of all the Peter had been through, he had never turned tail and run. Fled to regroup, maybe, yes, like a good strategist, but he was always there at the end.

“Stiles,” Peter said, quiet but loud in the crushing silence. “Whatever happens. I just want you to know that I appreciate what you--”

“Don’t do that,” Stiles cut in, both unprepared and unwilling to hear the rest of it.

Peter took in a shaky breath and let it out through his nose.

“We’re doing this,” Stiles said, putting all his conviction behind the words. “We’re coming out the other side.” He looked at Peter, who finally looked back, eyes naked and brows bowed. Stiles gave him a nod, lifting his hand, palm up.

Peter kept his eyes on Stiles’s face, taking his hand and nodded back.

When the doors opened, they walked in.

United.

**Author's Note:**

> They're fine. All is well. Peter probably gets the werewolf equivalent of community service. He and Stiles explore their relationship further, and everyone else is like "oh fuck no, they're joining forces."
> 
> Come say hi to me on [Tumblr!](thesushiowl.tumblr.com) I do prompts sometimes!


End file.
